Save Him
by Daisy Chains and Growing Pains
Summary: He would scream for Steve, too. And some nights she'd wish he'd come to save him from his nightmares. (Oneshot)


Falling.

That's all he could remember of his nightmares. The fall. The slip from the blonde's fingers before plummeting to the earth from the bridge before he woke up in a sweat. Some nights it would go on from there. It was almost as if he could feel his body slam against the ground once more, his arm ripped from his body. Red was the color of dreams. All the blood, all the fucking blood. From him, from others. It felt as if it rained from above, drowning him, suffocating him. His memories came back in short flashbacks like the bright flash of a dying light bulb; Steve, the Commandos, Austria, the operation, the mind alterations; the torture. Good god, the torture. All the eyes glued to him as he sat there, restrained and tested on like a common lab rat as he begged for mercy.

Some nights his own screams woke him up. Some nights it was the screams of others. He would stare into their eyes that begged him; pleaded with him for their lives. Men and women; children, spouses, parents, friends. Lives extinguished at his fingertips. He watched himself slit their throats, their sticky blood thick and warm on his fingers. Watched himself pull the trigger, bullets ripping through skin as they screamed, the light in their eyes dulling as they choked on their own blood. He watched as his fingers tightened around throats, feeling their life flutter in their pulse under cool vibranium, fingers clawing at metal as their eyes repeated the same words over and over; _Stop. Please. Stop._

He sat upright, throwing the blankets from his body in a panic. His eyes darted around the room, surveying his surroundings, heart pounding in his chest as he gasped for air. He didn't recognize the soft white walls- or were they cream? Was his in an institution? Or back in Siberia? Did they find him? Was he in a hospital? Did Steve find him? He grasped around on the bed, the screams of the people he killed- _his victims_ still begging for mercy in his ears. He was breathing hard, his breaths coming out in short heavy gasps. His fingers closed around the soft worn cotton of the comforter, pulling it close to him and clutching it to his chest, the sobs that had caught in his chest escaping in heavy barks of tears. He was going to puke, he thought. His head pounded. They wouldn't stop fucking screaming. The walls bled red around him, the screams ringing in his ears. _Stop. Please. Stop._

He pulled the comforter over his face, trying to muffle his sobs. His knuckles pressed against his cheek bones, sweat beading on his forehead. He jumped when he felt her warm hands on him, one caressing his back and the other curling around his wrist, her soft skin hot against cool metal. Her hands were always warm. She slept with one under his shirt, feeling his heart beat and his chest raise, the other tucked under her pillow. He pulled away at her touch, head snapping up at her, almost throwing him out of bed. He raised his left arm, blocking his face from whatever blow would follow. "Sweetheart," she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, gently pulling his arm down, "Bucky, honey, you're safe."

He blinked the tears from his eyes, her own eyes boring into his with sleepy concern. He took in the sight of her, his chest heaving as he tried to calm his head. The screams never ceased. She continued to hold his wrist, her gentle grip a calming and protective presence. She looked at him, worry etched across her lovely face. Her curls were ratty and tousled, her hair knotted from where she left her hair tie in from bun she had thrown it in before bed. The tee shirt she was in stained with foods that remained a mystery to the both of them. "It was just a bad dream, baby," she whispered, her voice hoarse with sleep. He stared at her, eyes wild and wet. He wasn't fully awake, his eyes still glazed over with sleep, trapped in his nightmare. Her heart bled, she bit her lip, reaching to push his hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ears. He swallowed hard, taking a shaky breath.

" _I killed them."_ His voice wasn't above a whisper, his eyes still darting around her bedroom. He didn't know where he was. He spent so many nights here, after she insisted upon him staying with her after she saw the conditions of the safe house. Yet he still woke up in a panic, even where he was the most at home.

"That was a long time ago," she whispered back, taking his face in her hands, wiping tears from his stubbly cheeks with the pads of her thumbs.

"I killed people, Rach," he voice cracked as he collapsed into her, shaking with sobs.

She hushed him, rocking the broken super solider as she rubbed his back, salty tears staining her bed shirt. Broken, so beautifully broken. He wrapped his arms around her middle, his head buried in the crook of her neck, clinging to her like a child. "I don't want to hurt people anymore," he gasped, "I don't want to be bad anymore,"

She held him tighter, pressing kisses to his shaggy hair. The near nightly gospel echoed through the room, his voice growing softer and softer until his lips just moved, mouthing the words he was too terrified to say. She ran her fingers through the long locks, gathering it at the nape of his sweaty neck. His sobs quieted, his fingers knotted in her tee shirt, fearing that if he let her go, she would fade away like she did in his dreams. She listened to him gasp for air, reminding him to breathe as her own tears became wet. Her poor man. Her poor strong man. His strong body shook with silent sobs, his left arm tightening around her waist. She pulled him off of her, pushing gently when he resisted, forcing him to lay on his back. She rolled onto his chest, stroking his face with her fingers, wiping stray tears on his shirt. "You're not bad," she whispered, her voice as soft as her touch, "You're not bad, Bucky." He held her tight, his breath evening as he slipped back into sleep. "You're James Buchanan Barnes. You are not what they made you be." She whispered, feeling him relax under her, "You are so loved, baby. I love you so, so much." She whispered, tracing her fingers over his lips, across his jaw, a soft sigh escaping his lips, the moment of panic forgotten as he slipped into a more peaceful place. She hoped he had drifted off somewhere beautiful, where he was happy and at peace. Where his past couldn't haunt him.

Screaming.

She remembered all of his nightmares. Every single one. Sometimes, they came in tones just above a whisper, or little barks of raised tones. Some nights they were in English, other nights in languages she didn't understand. Most nights in Russian. She would lay next to him, listening as he shouted; the sweet quiet man she had met at the farmer's market two years prior as she studied abroad. He did nothing but love in the daylight, but he was so haunted in the night. They would start as mumbles, words and noises she couldn't quite make out. They would grow more violent sounding like someone was torturing him and inflicting pain to the already pained soldier. " _Don't make me, please don't make me, don't make me, don't make me,"_ he'd beg, the screams of agony coming next. She would flinch besides him, staring up at the ceiling, grasping his hand. Praying that they would end. Praying that his own mind would grant him peace as he called for the pain to end.

He would scream for Steve, too. And some nights she'd wish he'd come to save him from his nightmares.

* * *

Hello all!

This little one shot came to me last night after seeing Civil War (finally) and I decided to piece it together tonight... Trying to determine whether or not I want to continue it or leave it as is... Let me know your thoughts!

Well wishes,

DCAGP


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